White Noise

Here I am, cliffside along the north fork of a Washington river, one touted as the least polluted in the state. The setting is idyllic: comfortable home balanced on a cliff above the river, surrounded with rain forest cedars, fir, and ferns. A bald eagle flies by at eye level, her nest a quarter mile up-river. Osprey screech, patrol and perch along this stretch of water. They fly below my chair here on the deck. Great blue heron drags his ceremonial grey through the shallows next to a deep pool, turning fishing into an artform. Blue-black stellar jays jump and sprint and zip through the woods, balancing here, stabbing there, in a frenetic forage quite out of place with this spot's serenity. A water dipper does her amazing snorkel tricks in the rapid river below me.

One of the many reasons I love this spot is the ambient noise of the river. The river is omni-present, day or night, with windows open or closed. The river's noise blocks out other, less serene, sounds, like the many trucks hauling rock and soil up the hill just yards away from the house and the whiney motorcycles on the river road below me.

The river sounds mask all that I don't want to hear, all the sounds of my fellow humans who also savor this precious part of the planet. It's "white noise" for this serene spot.

I really like the phrase "white noise," as it connotes a sense of purity and good intention. It conveys the idea that this noise will sooth, not harm, the listener. That's very different from the outrageous blast of ad that shatters my calm while watching a television show. That is not white noise; that is the blackest, most evil, most treacherous noise I know of. White noise is very different from the deep thump of base coming from a low-riding Honda two blocks from my house. It's very different from the inane chatter spurting from a truck's radio, blather I cannot escape at a downtown intersection.

I like and use white noise. My white noise machine offers several choices. I can zone out with crickets, light rain, surf, heart beat, or non-descript steady burr. Any of these can wipe out for me the distractions of intermittent rattle from my environs. I can pretend I'm somewhere else or just lose myself in the redundancy of the vibrations coming from this small device.

White noise is, I think, big business. Searching for white noise info, I came across a site that offers these white noise water options:

Spring Water
Big rushing waves of water in a stream
Lapping water and engine noise as longboat cruises down river
Water filling sink at rapid pace
Big rushing waves of water in a stream
Water dripping at a medium pace
Big, frothy splash in an indoor swimming pool
Water lapping and splashing against boulders
Ocean surf sound with whales singing.
Medium rain on concrete or pavement in a quiet city
River, rooster and birds
Early morning by a river with dog and birds.
River flowing over rocks
Ducks quack and splash around in a pond
A chorus of frogs in a pond
Creaking boats, lapping water
Trickling water from a mountain spring
Forest ambience after rain shower with ocean surf in the background
Slow single drops of water
Waterfall (many sizes)
Rain dripping onto a rain gutter with the sound of cars driving on wet street
Waves (waves can jump, soar, surge, swell, spray, drip or pound)
Water trickle (with sewer / car sounds)

I'm thinking I can find just about any white noise related to water that I want. I'm thinking I won't order the white noise of water trickle with sewer and car sounds. It's true: I prefer the original white noise, the cascade of river I'm enjoying right now, but I feel comforted understanding that so many options of white noise are available to me. I'll sleep better just knowing that.

A Sacrifice of Buntings

Last spring lazuli buntings visited my yard and they were spectacular. Their intense blue feathers, set off by a bib of rich bronze, transformed them into flying jewels. A year ago, I wrote about them:

"In the past few days I have been blessed to watch brilliant lazuli buntings peck good seed from my feeders and drink clean water from my bird baths. I am sorry if you have never seen a lazuli bunting up close. They are stunning: tropical turquoise, coral, and white dress these sweet finches. Their flash of blue through the garden is absolutely hypnotic. I've stationed myself at windows, perched myself on a futon in the sunroom, peered from behind living room drapes, just so I could gaze at these gorgeous birds."

This year is different. This year I'm enduring birder envy, as a dear friend a couple miles away is posting pictures of the eleven lazuli buntings visiting her yard and I am seeing none in mine. I find myself sitting in the sunroom while knitting, glancing up between stitches to see if any are at the small feeder or splashing in the birdbath. None. I move to the kitchen and spy to see if any are perched at the large feeder. None. The giddy antics of American goldfinches are delightful to watch, as they fly a roller coaster track through the yard and hang their beautiful yellow selves upside down on the thistle feeder. Beautiful. But they are not lazuli buntings.

My lucky friend who's hosting eleven buntings gave me a valuable tip: she said that a collection of buntings has been labeled a decoration, a mural, and a sacrifice. How wonderful and mysterious to have such vivid collective nouns for these gorgeous birds! Who makes these terms up? Who decides which labels will stick?

I did some study and found verbal delights. Some collective bird nouns are very apt. For example, a group of starlings is called a chattering or a murmuration; a group of geese in flight is called a wedge and that same group on water is called a gaggle. Jays gathered together are called a party and chickens, a peep. A group of turtle doves is called a pitying. These terms make sense.

Some collective bird nouns are lyrical and lovely. Have you ever seen a bouquet (of pheasants) or a charm (of hummingbirds) or a wisp (of snipes) or an exaltation (of larks)? But others are less favorable. When ravens gather, they are called an unkindness or a congress. I wouldn't want to be tagged with either label. Gathered crows are called a murder, while a group of herons is named a siege. Peacocks together are aptly called an ostentation.

Other terms I looked at didn't seem to have clear reasoning related to human views of the birds. Would you name a group of raptors a cauldron? Would you call gathering of parrots a company? Would you think that kettle is a fine label for a bunch of nighthawks? How about the word knob? Would you apply that to a group of widgeons? Not sure I understand...

I'm enchanted by these collective nouns, these group names given to birds by curious and imaginative folks over hundreds of years. And I am ever so grateful for the lazuli bunting, whose presence in my birder friend's yard spurred her to share bird words, which started this linguistic quest. I think I'll step outside now and scan the yard for a sacrifice of buntings.

Curmudgeon

As I age, like many, I take mild delight in being a curmudgeon. There are some issues that just make me a bit cranky and I don't feel like apologizing for them. One such issue involves television. I'm not a fan. Don't have a big flat screen. My living room, with its hardwood floor, teal walls and hand-tinted landscape photos, is a salon, a spot for reading, talking or playing the musical instruments stored there: native American flutes made by my sweetie, conga drum, and small hand drums. It is living room, not a watching room.

Not a TV watcher, I spend my time at home reading, grading papers, writing, cleaning, cooking, gardening, knitting, or playing with my dog. I do not spend my time at home watching TV. Television's main function, in my world, is to serve as a vehicle for NetFlix. The house's two TVs are located at the east end of the place, in rooms with doors that can be closed, so the rest of the house can be quiet, which is how it is most of the time.

My daughter is the same way, seeing TV primarily as a movie-viewing tool. She was regarded with pity by a loved one when he discovered that, as recently as 2007, she had a TV with no remote control system...a TV with an on/off switch that was a knob to be pulled! How could the poor dear get by with such an appliance?

I know there are lots of wonderful people who do not share this approach to television, people I love a lot. In deference to them, I am tempering my observations, couching them in terms that may belie the intensity of my feelings. Hope I am successful at this modulation.

I do not need to have TV as background, finding it actually bothersome, rather than relaxing. I do not need to keep up on the latest news, whether it's from MSNBC, Fox, CNN, or PBS. I do not need to listen to rants about the left or the right. I do not need to know where Angelina and Brad are at a given moment. I do not need to be yelled at by advertisers.

My crankiness about TV surfaces in public spots, as well as the privacy of my home. In airports, I try to sit well away from TVs, though that's a challenge. Same thing goes for restaurants and bars, again a challenge. I was disappointed this week, as I went into a very upscale bar/restaurant located along a beautiful river. A key selling point of this place is the river view. I stopped in for happy hour beverage and appetizer, seeking a light early dinner in an elegant setting. Amazingly, this fancy spot, with its sleek modern architure and stunning black and white photographs, had a blaring TV hung above the glass wall with the river view in the bar! An oxymoron of sorts.

A friend who was traveling posted her annoyance at having to endure booming TV in the hotel's continental breakfast room. She wanted to eat breakfast while visiting with her husband, not eat breakfast while enduring the blast of Fox news. I share her disdain for TV's invasion of personal space during mealtime.

A clear indication of just how TV averse I really am occurred this week. Staying in a very nice hotel, I refused to open the huge mahogany credenza housing the TV. After I'd been in the room for two days, I finally opened it up and found an amazingly clever set-up for making coffee. I'd gone two days without in-room coffee and done so needlessly, all because I'm not a TV fan.

My annoyance about TV occurs, in part, because I have really sensitive hearing. In motels, this is not a good thing, as I can hear folks talking or TV playing rooms away. Outdoors, this is a very good thing, as I can hear owls hooting several houses away. Walking along a river this week, I was able to hear one of my favorite birds, the bashful rufous-sided towhee, as it scratched in the maze of blackberry bramble draping the bank. Could only see the towhees occasionally, but knew they were there. I was able to hear the wingbeats of cormorants as they dashed over my head and hear their amazing splashdowns out in the middle of the river.

I like listening to noises that aren't necessarily man-made. I like being fully present in my environment, taking in all the magic that is offered us each day. For me, television can disrupt that process. And today, the curmudgeon in me offers little apology for that view.

Air Traffic

Serving as Chief of Air Traffic Control in my yard, I am very busy this time of year. Air traffic is at an all-time high. This is not easy work, but I am dedicated to doing it with skill and without complaint.

First I must observe...and direct...the larger crafts (birds). Work must be done to ensure that their approaches, landings, and take-offs are without incident. Hazards need to be minimized, which may require posting hawk-shaped decals on window panes or moving fueling stations away from easy feline access.

Then I must think of the community concerns. If a hammock is in the area, I must monitor it to ensure that residents are not bombed or subjected to excessive noise. If a gathering occurs, I must be vigilant that guests are not having close encounters of an avian kind.

Once I take care of safety and comfort issues, I can focus on observation and that is the fun part of air traffic control in my yard. A few years back, I followed the advice of an Audubon Society speaker and planted a hummingbird island. Using native plants as much as possible, I put in lots of mallow and pentstemon, in brilliant girlie-hues of hot pink and violet. I also added white monarda to the bed, which already had good stands of blue cornflower and pale yellow columbine. The island sprawls just north of deep pink monarda, dogwood, coral and yellow honeysuckle, and three large butterfly bushes (including the gorgeous deep purple of "Black Knight"). Pale coral oriental poppies, Japanese spurge and pale pink Queen of the Prairie round out that bed. The two spots lure hummingbirds shamelessly.

The hummers come. I hear them often before seeing them. Sometimes one will plummet into the honeysuckle, stay a flash, and then lift off. Sometimes one will wander a bit through the aspen grove, its subtle green shape looking much like an aspen leaf. Sometimes a pair will race through the yard, dipping, chasing, soaring in a crazed duet. Sometimes, rarely, one will perch on a limb or a wire and take a micro-nap.

The air is filled this time of year with bees. My benign neglect of oregano and mint and sunflowers under the bird feeders brings hoardes of bees. What a joy to see golden buzzes of different sizes working the big yellow faces of six-foot tall sunflowers! What pleasure to hear the soft whirr of bee in the tiny orchid oregano blooms next to the sunroom! What satisfaction to see a huge bumble of black and gold among the columbine! Given the globe's bee problems, I'm pleased to be helping a tiny bit.

Most notable in my garden air this time of year are the fluttering ballerina butterflies, their ivory tutus dotted with dabs of charcoal. These sweet creatures kiss many of my plants, not just the open-faced ones like yarrow and buddleia, but the ruffled skirts of yellow hollyhock, the pale umbels of parsley and the cheery white goblins in my petunia bed. Sometimes these performers do solos and other times engage in synchorized gyrations that spin my head. I watched a quartet this week whirl, dive, pop, and glide in a dance of impressive length. What, I wondered, made them move as one?

Monitoring air traffic in my yard is one of my important chores in late summer. You can rest assured that I am going stay vigilant at my post (whether it's a hammock, swing, or futon), keeping watch on all my aerial visitors.

August !

Here it is August, the eighth month that was originally the sixth month til the Romans messed with the calendar. August, the month that's mostly about anticipation: when will the heat subside, when will the kids get back in the school, when will football reign, when will the yard quench its unsatiable thirst. August, the month that Chicago residents recently dubbed one of their least favorite, at the bottom of the list of faves, along with November. August, the month that one Slate columnist (David Plotz) proposed eliminating, citing its miserable heat, dismal history and inconsequence, saying it was like the Mississippi River, something we'd be better off without.

Not sure I agree with the August bashers. I like August. It's a trigger month for me. It always triggers in my mind the notion of corduroy, plush, mysterious corduroy. Look at it one way, it's deep-toned and a bit rough. Turn it around, it's sleek and lighter. I remember corduroy jumpers were part of our August world. These wonderfully versatile garments offered a way to expand a girl's wardrobe, with one swift switch. A white blouse under a black corduroy jumper, one with a rick-rack trimmed full-circle skirt, could launch the jumper to exquisite primness, while a tartan plaid top could rouse images of lockers, lunch bells, and eraser dust. These are August images. I gifted my daughter with this same seasonal fashion: her back-to-school wardrobe, stitched up in late summer, typically had at least one piece of lush, ribbed corduroy. Corduroy and August just go together in my mind, like root beer and vanilla ice cream.

Corduroy jumpers are not the only thing I like about August. The month also triggers the image of air shows, not performed by fighter jets, but by tiny, big-mouthed swallows. These diminutive aeronauts are amazing. My late husband and I used to plunk lawn chairs in the middle of our large back yard, then sit quite still as the air show launched. Rusty-breasted barn swallows would swoop, zip, dive, roll, and soar all around us, sweeping the evening sky for hapless insects, fanning their distinctive vees of tail. Our neighborhood, plush green from cheap irrigation water, lured mosquitos and they brought in the swallow squadrons. We were stunned, repeatedly shocked, that these jockeys didn't collide, with each other, with us, with the many trees and shrubs in our yard. We loved the exhilarating swallow air shows: a treat that came our way each August.

Another August treat drops off trees, pops out of freezers. I'm talking about the indescribable wonder of fresh, local peaches dressing up a dish of good vanilla ice cream. A dessert fiend I'm not, but in August, I'm on the prowl. Gimme the succulent fuzzy globe. I'll pit it, slice it, smother it with sweet vanilla chill. I'll make each serving a long, slow, meander along my taste buds. I'll sit, as I did last night, in the green chamber of backyard, bringing each spoonful deliberately to my mouth, letting the peach land first, crowned by the ice cream, then letting the blissful concoction melt, dissolve, find its way to my tummy. I'll wait a bit before taking on the next spoonful. Savor this blessing. Savor each bit of August.

August-bashers can attack the month, but I like it. I like the name, as it sounds dignified. My grandfather's first name was August; my father's middle name was August. It's a name I like. Detractors say that the month is flawed because there is no national holiday. But what about all the wonderful, if lesser known, celebrations in August? Here are some of my favorites, along with their celebration dates: National Ice Cream Sandwich Day (2nd); Wiggle Your Toes Day (6th); National Polka Festival!!!(9th); Middle Child Day (that's me) (12th); Bratwurst Festival (16th); National Spongecake Day (23rd); and World Sauntering Day (28th).

With all these things to celebrate, what's not to like about August?

To Feed or Not to Feed

I admit it. I'm a geek birder, someone who gets so excited at seeing a pileated woodpecker (yes, in my state, awhile back) that I do not object to stopping the car in the middle of the road, leaving car doors agape while we all stab our binocs into the woods to scan intimate details of a bird that is rare around here.

I admit it. I'm a gawker, staring out the window for long, long stretches while ostensibly doing dishes, savoring the antics of rollicky gold finches who happen to dine upside down.

I admit it. I get a bit nervous when I've run out of the good birdseed and ponder the notion that I'm "neglecting" the feathered ones who have learned to dine at my feeders.

I always thought that being a birdfeeder was a good thing, that consistently putting out high quality seed was a pro-bird kind of thing.

Then this spring I heard from an advocate/researcher/birder who's been similarly smitten for three decades that maybe birdfeeding isn't such a good thing. Maybe the resulting imports of invasive flora and fauna are too damaging. Maybe the increased predation that birds face in backyards, predation from domestic cats, isn't worth the price of a daily handout. Maybe the birds' dependence on "welfare" meals isn't something that helps species in the long run.

But today, today after hours and hours and hours of non-stop rain, I'm convinced that being a birdfeeder is a good thing, that feeding birds is an act to be continued.

Why this epiphany on a rainforest day in the high desert? It's because of who's been visiting my feeders. It's because my efforts at providing safely situated dining rooms, along with fresh water and lots of trees, shrubs, and flowers, have made this small yard a refuge for songbirds. In the past few days I have been blessed to watch brilliant lazuli buntings peck good seed from my feeders and drink clean water from my bird baths. I am sorry if you have never seen a lazuli bunting up close. They are stunning: tropical turquoise, coral, and white dress these sweet finches. Their flash of blue through the garden is absolutely hypnotic. I've stationed myself at windows, perched myself on a futon in the sunroom, peered from behind living room drapes, just so I could gaze at these gorgeous birds.

And today, throughout this rare deluge, these jeweled buntings have been ravenous at my feeders. It's almost 7:30 pm here and, as I've written, a soaked bunting has been persistently gobbling the seed in a feeder beneath my crab apple tree. Can I offer this little trooper some refuge? Come on in the sunroom, out of the rain...I'll just leave a window open for you. The dogs can just stay in the house for awhile. You rest. Let those azure feathers dry a bit.

Yes, I will continue to feed birds. Maybe it is all about me, about my being able to savor the blessing of the turquoise zips of lazuli bunting. But maybe it is more. Maybe feeding birds helps folks like me connect with the natural world, a union that is increasingly difficult to forge. Maybe feeding birds gives us town folk a way to exchange our arrogant dominance over nature for a humbler, more durable companionship with things not human. Maybe more of these connections will help us maintain life on this planet a bit longer.

I'm thinking that's the lesson I've learned this week from the spectacular lazuli bunting. I'm thinking the answer to the question posed in this post's title is resoundingly clear: I shall continue "To Feed."

En-raptored

I could worship raptors. Just watching birds of prey, in flight or rock still, takes my breath. When we lived riverside, we were blessed to have nesting ospreys, large "fish hawks," as stunning neighbors. From our living room we'd witness aeronautics that rivalled Blue Angels' airshows. Black and white feathered rockets would plummet to the river's surface, then soar up again with squiggling fish in their talons. Then, gliding above the river, they'd tilt their Zorro-masked heads to zero in on more fish that would be dinner.

Hard workers, they'd carry stick after stick to the six-foot wide nest perched atop the power pole along the river. When their young hatched, we'd get to watch balls of grey fuzz morph into clumbsy "tweens," screeching at their parents for more, more, more food! The kids would then trade their geeky-looking outfits for sleeker feathered garb and we'd be treated to their pre-flight tests: perched on the edge of the nest, they would teeter and flap their wings with increasing speed and fervor. Little hops looked like dress-rehearsal take-offs. Then one day we'd look out and the nest would be empty. The whole family was out and about. Awhile longer, and they would all have moved out of the neighborhood.

Bald eagles would fly over our yard on occasion, typically frigid January days, searching for succulent, accessible prey. Red-tailed hawks soared high above throughout the year. Their ease of movement, without appearing to flap a wing, was astounding. Seems they could ride thermals for hours. Sometimes smaller hawks, like merlins or Cooper's hawks, would swoosh through our yard, intent on capturing one of the hundreds of song birds our feeders drew in. The place was an edenic birding spot and we never tired of our raptor friends.

Living now in town, with no river close by, I'm not treated to these sightings so often. A kestrel will sometimes drop by and, on some sultry July afternoons, a red-tailed hawk will be a ghost high above the house. My raptor treats now, sadly, are too scarce.

So I was thrilled this week to find, as I drove to a cabin in a small mountain town, the route flush with raptors. Red-tailed hawks perched in tall cottonwoods all along my route. Puffed up to ward off the nasty January weather, they looked huge. Their distinctive bibs were quilted down vests. The birds seemed a bit surly, as though they wanted to grab a bite to eat and were annoyed that their preferred small mammal entrees weren't out. Cowardly avoiding the inclement conditions, the fuzzy little meals were hunkered down in toasty burrows. So the red-tails just sat, scowled, and stared.

Other hawks, probably Swainson's, were working to find some fast food. And one beautiful harrier, a marsh hawk with its distinctive white band above the tail, swept across a field like a fighter jet, its zips showing off the bird's amazing speed and agility. A stealth fighter, the marsh hawk is a superior mouser in tall vegetation because its rounded face, much like an owl's, directs very slight mouse sounds to her ears, allowing her to surprise the unsuspecting prey. (I once watched a harrier hunt for almost two hours...fascinating show, just enthralling.)

On this trek, brave little kestrels patrolled the highway itself, sentries alert for any ground squirrels or voles who needed to be "taken out" for the good of the planet. Most were fluffed nearly a third bigger than normal, insulating themselves against the chill of wind and snow. One bold kestrel cruised over my car and lit on a power line, its four-legged furry banquet dangling. Dinner was almost served.

When I arrived at the cabin, I gave thanks, thanks for the chance to see these incredible predators working, waiting, watching. Better than any in-car DVD, these raptors made an enjoyable drive something quite precious, even sacred.